


Anywhere (If You Try to Find Me)

by AppleTaters



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: At least I tried, Derek is lonely and angsty and Stiles is like a ray of sunshine in his gloomy heart, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Humor, M/M, Road Trip, Slow Burn, Sterek-centric, Summer Vacation, a werewolf and an angsty college student being a nuisance in the PNW, even though they weren't enemies really, gratuitous use of Denny's and small town diners for aesthetic, it gets more poetic~ further in, this entire fic is inspired by the song Anywhere by Fuvk and the title is taken from the lyrics
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-17
Updated: 2020-11-10
Packaged: 2021-03-05 23:28:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,483
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25953757
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AppleTaters/pseuds/AppleTaters
Summary: Welcome to Phoenix, proclaimed the sign. A fitting name for the two of them, Stiles thought. Derek had quite literally been forged in fire, but he, too, felt like he was teetering on the edge of a new beginning. The further they got from everything that he’d always known, as the trees grew ever taller the further north they travelled, the lighter he felt.Simply, a stiles x derek road trip fic
Relationships: Allison Argent/Scott McCall, Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Comments: 4
Kudos: 33





	1. Familiarity

**Author's Note:**

> This story is not very kind to Scott (I’m not necessarily a Scott-hater all the time, but for the sake of this I am) so if he’s your favorite character, be wary!  
> I made a playlist for this fic and I highly recommend listening while you read to set the mood! It’s under the same name as the fic  
> https://open.spotify.com/playlist/0fBcns4jk1iZcWiqzodyf9?si=-geAV2RESzyTaK3HtN-toQ  
> If you don't have spotify and want the track listing, just comment and I'll add it to the notes!  
> Stiles is 20 and Derek is 28, so there's a somewhat significant age difference. Just a warning.  
> This fic is extremely centered on Sterek, since it's mostly them going on a road trip. The other characters barely show up at all, but I tagged them all for visibility. Sorry lol  
> Based on my plot outline I predict it will end up at about 75,000 words, but I'm posting it as I write so it could be significantly more.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I am capable of being nice,” Derek said as he led them across the parking lot to his Camaro, “under normal circumstances.”  
> Stiles laughed, shifting the heavy bag of groceries to his other hand.  
> “At this point, being under the constant threat of violent dismemberment is normal for us,” he said sardonically, “so that’s not a real good excuse, big guy.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know nothing about cars, so please forgive me if something about Stiles’ Jeep doesn’t make sense.  
> The band Derek is listening to in the car is Pinegrove !! they're on the playlist on spotify :))

His sweaty t-shirt sticking to his skin, Stiles lay motionless, staring at the ceiling of his sweltering bedroom. He was idly amusing himself by finding shapes in the uneven paint, and marveling at the human mind’s remarkable tendency to seek familiarity where it doesn’t exist. He could do with a little less familiarity these days, he thought wryly. Just as a formless blob in the corner turned into moth-man, his phone began vibrating insistently. He reached for it blindly, just barely managing not to knock it off his nightstand, and glanced at the screen. “Unknown caller”; another tele-marketer. With a shallow sigh, he let it drop next to his head on the bed. Bone-deep laziness and a certain acquired apathy were the only things that kept him from throwing his phone viciously across the room.

It was the Summer before his senior year of college, and Stiles was  _ bored _ . He’d been bored for nearly a month straight now, but the oppressive feeling of aimlessness didn’t get any better, didn’t sit any easier in his normally-hyperactive limbs. His mood wasn’t helped by the knowledge that his best friend was perfectly capable of hanging out with him, if only he could tear himself away from his girlfriend for five goddamn minutes. Scott had always been a somewhat questionable choice of best friend; he could be flighty, self-centered, impulsive, flaky. But Stiles was nothing if not loyal, and once he had something set in his mind it was extremely hard to convince him otherwise— his decade-long obsession with Lydia Martin was a testament to that. So, true to his nature, he had called Scott his best friend since early childhood despite having to put up with all variations of bullshit as a result. Even after Scott got bitten by a werewolf a couple years ago, Stiles was always there by his side, fighting his battles, nearly dying a couple times, and rarely getting so much as a “thank you”.

Somehow, though, being abandoned to an entire Summer vacation by himself hurt the most. Stiles couldn’t blame Allison, even though it was indirectly her fault that Scott was too preoccupied to answer Stiles’ texts with anything more substantial than the occasional “haha” or “cool”. No, this was all on Scott, and with each passing day, Stiles was less and less forgiving of his oldest friend.

One of his only respites from the soul-crushing monotony was his weekly trip to the grocery store to stock up on supplies for his culinary experiments, something he’d been getting better at since school ended and he’d had all the free time in the world to test out low-cholesterol recipes for his dad.

Deciding that even Safeway was more fun than what he was currently doing, and struck by a sudden craving for sugar, Stiles dragged himself off his bed and into his jeep to make a grocery run.

Half an hour later, Stiles was standing in the cereal aisle, debating which flavor of Poptarts to get— the brown sugar was his favorite, but there was a new kind that supposedly tasted like birthday cake, which was tempting— when he saw movement out of the corner of his eye, looked up, and found Derek Hale staring at him. The werewolf froze when they made eye contact, holding a box of granola mid-way between the shelf and the basket in his other hand.

“Hey, long time no see, Sourwolf!” Stiles exclaimed with a grin. Derek looked taken aback, like he was surprised someone was actually speaking to him.

“Whatcha got there?” Stiles moved closer and tilted his head, reading the text on the box in the werewolf’s hand.

“Ah, that’s a good brand. And the chocolate flavor is the best,” Stiles said, shoving his hands in the pockets of his jeans.

“It’s deceptively delicious for how healthy it actually is. Which I sorta know a lot about since, y’know, my dad is getting to a certain age. Plus, being the sheriff doesn’t help. Did you know sudden cardiac arrest accounts for ten percent of on-duty police deaths in the U.S.? Yeah, so I try to feed him all that crunchy hippie shit— granola, kale, whatever random berry has most recently been decreed the mystical secret to long life. People’s obsession with the healing properties of random foreign foods is actually kinda weird, if you really think about it. Like, indigenous people in North America didn’t have any of that shit, and they did alright; why is it suddenly imperative that I eat acai every day? It’s all a big berry-flavored conspiracy, I’m telling you.”

Stiles knew he was word-vomiting, but he couldn’t bring himself to stop. It had been so long since he’d had the chance to talk to someone other than his own father, and he had learned to tune out Stiles’ rambling years ago. Anyway, Derek wasn’t scowling, which meant he didn’t mind. The absence of a scowl was basically the peak of gaiety when it came to Derek’s arsenal of facial expressions.

“Anyway, that’s a good brand. Remember, chocolate is deadly for dogs, though,” Stiles said with a grin, nodding at the box in Derek’s hand, and  _ ah _ , there was the alpha’s trademark frown!

“I’m just kidding, man, don’t kill me,” he went on, raising his hands in mock surrender.

He knew by now that the older man would never actually hurt him— in fact Derek had saved his life on multiple occasions— but the whole  _ I’ll rip your throat out with my teeth _ back-and-forth was kind of his and Derek’s  _ thing _ .

Derek’s frown lessened.

“It’s kinda weird seeing you just out and about, to be honest,” Stiles said, and ran a hand through his hair idly.

“You’re like, I dunno, Batman, or something. You only appear when you’re most needed, and then melt back into the darkness without a trace. You’ve got the right car for it, too. It’s just weird seeing Batman in Safeway.”

Stiles thought he saw the corner of Derek’s mouth twitch, like he was holding back a smile. Lord knows the man could stand to crack a smile more often.

“I’m not Batman,” Derek grunted, finally tossing the granola into his basket. And with that, the werewolf turned on his heel and stalked away.

“Good talk, Derek!” Stiles called out as the other man disappeared around the end of the aisle.

Stiles walked back to the display of toaster pastries, shaking his head in amusement at the alpha’s apparent inability to hold a normal human conversation. Still undecided on which flavor of Poptarts to get, Stiles just grabbed one of each and continued on his merry way.

After he had found the rest of the things on his list, briefly waited in line, and paid, Stiles walked his cart of groceries to his Jeep and unloaded the collection of bags into the back. While he was returning his cart, he spotted Derek exiting the store with his own groceries, and was once again taken aback by the sight of the alpha werewolf doing something so  _ domestic _ . Stiles tore his gaze away, hopped in his Jeep, put on his seatbelt, and turned the key.

Nothing happened.

“No, baby, come on,” Stiles murmured, and tried the key again. When there was still no response, he cursed softly and patted the top of the dashboard.

“Baby, don’t do this to me, okay? I know you can do it, come on,” he pleaded with his car, but the engine still wouldn’t start.

Just as he was about to pull out his phone to call a tow truck, muttering to himself about how the ice cream would be melted by the time he got home, Derek appeared by the driver’s side door.

“Having car trouble?” he asked, and Stiles rolled his eyes.

“Excellent observation, Derek,” he snapped.

“Why don’t you say something actually helpful, like offering to get your jumper cables?”

The other man’s expression turned sour.

“I don’t have them with me, I leant them to Boyd last week,” he said with a scowl.

“Forgive me for trying to be friendly.”

Stiles flinched, and his anger deflated.

“I’m sorry, man,” he sighed, “I’m just having a pretty terrible day. Actually, I’m having a terrible month. Maybe I should just say I’m having a terrible life, and leave it at that. That covers all the bases.”

Derek’s eyebrows drew together, and if Stiles didn’t know better he’d say the werewolf looked concerned.

“Anyway, I shouldn’t have snapped at you,” Stiles ran a hand over his face.

“It’s not your fault this Summer has been a total shit-show.”

“It’s not that big of a deal, it’s likely just your battery,” Derek said, “and you can just call Scott for a ride.”

Stiles laughed humorlessly and looked down at his lap, trying to will down the stab of sadness that ran through him. He knew Derek’s werewolf senses would be all up in his emotions, and he didn’t need the other man to know quite how much Scott’s ongoing absence hurt him.

“Scott’s busy with Allison,” he said, looking up and shrugging, “and my dad is at work. So, tow truck it is.”

“Oh,” Derek replied, and then walked away.

“I can give you a ride home, then,” he continued, and Stiles realized he had stopped at the back of Stiles’ Jeep.

Derek popped the back window open and reached in to grab the bags of groceries.

Stiles was confused by this very uncharacteristically generous behavior from Derek, but he really didn’t want his groceries to spoil. He wasn’t about to look a gift wolf in the mouth, so he scrambled to undo his seatbelt and hop out of the car.

“Thanks, Derek, that’s actually really nice of you,” he said, grabbing the last bag and locking the car.

“I am capable of being nice,” Derek said as he led them across the parking lot to his Camaro, “under normal circumstances.”

Stiles laughed, shifting the heavy bag of groceries to his other hand.

“At this point, being under the constant threat of violent dismemberment is normal for us,” he said sardonically, “so that’s not a real good excuse, big guy.”

The werewolf didn’t reply, just opened the trunk of his car and deposited Stiles’ groceries next to his own before stepping aside so Stiles could do the same.

Derek closed the trunk firmly, and the two got settled in the car, Stiles basking in the opportunity to ride in something so sleek.

“Thanks, dude. You really are Batman,” Stiles said, doing up his seatbelt with a click, “unless this is all a ploy and you’re going to rip my throat out and leave my lifeless body in the woods.”

“Stiles, why would I kill you and ruin all the times I’ve saved your life?” Derek asked, sounding tired.

“I know, I know,” Stiles said quietly as Derek turned the car on and looked over his shoulder before backing out.

“Thank you for that, by the way. Saving me, I mean. I don’t think I’ve ever said it, but… thanks.”

The werewolf glanced at him briefly and then returned his gaze to the rearview mirror.

“Oh, well… you’re welcome.”

“Oh, and I’m sorry my dad arrested you for murder,” Stiles went on, figuring he might as well apologize for that too, while the other man was in such a charitable mood.

“That’s…” Derek sighed.

“It was understandable, given the circumstances.”

Stiles grinned. Derek was a good guy, really, under all the leather and eyebrows.

“I’m glad you’re not the one who bit Scott,” Stiles said, watching the downtown slide away past the window.

“Why?” Derek asked hesitantly.

“Because then Scott would be trying to kill you to get the cure for his furry little problem,” he explained, glancing down at his fidgeting hands, “and to be honest, I’m not sure who I would side with at this point.”

Now there was a confession. Maybe he was being over-dramatic with a sentiment like that, but Derek had been so nice to him today, and Scott… well, he was feeling a lot more fond of Derek in this particular moment.

“Trouble in paradise?” Derek asked as the houses along the road thinned, replaced by dense walls of tall trees.

Stiles huffed a laugh.

“More like I’m the only one left in paradise while Scott and Allison decided to yuck it up eating apples.”

“That makes no sense,” said Derek in a tone that clearly implied he thought Stiles was an idiot.

“I get that a lot,” Stiles replied with a wry grin, “but anyway, I guess Scott’s just not interested in being the greatest friend to me right now.”

“He’s too busy with the Argent girl?” Derek asked, derision coloring his tone as he said her name.

“It’s not her fault, not really,” Stiles insisted, still compelled to defend his friend despite everything.

“They haven’t seen each other since spring break, after all. I should be more understanding. I know you don’t really trust her, but Allison’s a nice girl, really.”

“No, I…” Derek paused, “I trust Allison. Now. It just took a while for her to prove herself trustworthy.”

“Oh,” Stiles said, pleasantly surprised, “that’s good. Well, whenever the next supernatural disaster starts, I’ll make sure to include you from the beginning, then.”

“Instead of waiting until your plan goes to shit— because of course it did, your plan was terrible— and then coming crying to me about it?”

“Hey!” Stiles cried, twisting in his seat and pointing an angry finger at the smirking werewolf.

“My plans are not shit! But, yeah, instead of that.”

He had to concede, things did always go more smoothly once an  _ experienced _ alpha was on their team.

“Good,” Derek mumbled as they turned onto Stiles’ street.

“It’s hard to protect you if you won’t even tell me when you’re in trouble.”

Stiles turned to Derek with a mischievous smile.

“Aw, you want to protect me?” he teased, “I’m truly touched.”

Derek’s hands flexed on the steering wheel like he wanted to reach over and slam Stiles’ head into the dashboard, but was restraining himself.

“I meant the _ collective _ you, Stiles,” he said through a clenched jaw.

“You, Scott, Allison, Lydia, whoever else has joined your ragtag group of misfits this month.”

“Oh. Well, that’s still sweet,” Stiles said as they slowed to a stop outside his house.

“It’s not that sweet,” Derek muttered, and Stiles decided to let him preserve the cool, detached reputation that he seemed to cling to so desperately. The other man had just done him a favor, after all.

“Can you get the trunk?” Stiles asked, opening the car door to climb out.

To his surprise, Derek followed him out of the car. To his greater surprise, the werewolf insisted on helping Stiles carry his groceries inside.

“Thanks again, man,” Stiles said, setting the bags down on the counter and trying not to gawk at the surreal sight of Derek Hale standing casually in his kitchen.

“No problem,” he replied, and the two men stared at each other in silence for a moment.

“I think I’ve got it from here,” Stiles said, and Derek seemed to shake himself out of a stupor.

“Right, I’ll just go, then.”

The taller man walked to the front door, Stiles trailing after him.

“Don’t forget to call triple-A,” he said as he crossed the threshold, pulling his car keys out of his pocket.

“Will do,” Stiles said with a grin as Derek sauntered away towards his car.

“See ya around, Sourwolf!” he called out, and closed the door on Derek’s retreating back.

Sometimes he just couldn’t resist having the last word.

Stiles reclined on the steps in front of his front door, the relative cool of the grey concrete seeping through his thin jeans but doing little to soothe the burn of the sun overhead. He leaned his weight back on his hands as he stared, forlorn, to where his baby blue Jeep sat uselessly in his driveway.

As it had turned out, there was a lot more wrong with it than a dead battery. He hadn’t understood anything the mechanic had said, only that his precious car was down for the count until Stiles could somehow convince his dad to cough up a few thousand dollars for repairs.

Stiles hadn’t left the house all week, and he found the feeling of being trapped in his own home to be highly unpleasant. To make matters worse, his dad worked too much to make a grocery run until his next day off, and Stiles had long since run out of Poptarts.

Stiles groaned and got to his feet, wiping his palms on his thighs.

“Desperate times,” he muttered to himself, and pulled out his phone.

Derek picked up on the second ring.

“Stiles, what’s wrong?” he asked in a rush.

“Nothing!” Stiles said quickly, realizing that, historically, he had only called Derek when he or one of his friends was in mortal peril.

“I’m fine, everything’s fine!”

Derek sighed.

“Good. Wait, then why are you calling me?” he asked.

“I just, uh,” Stiles hesitated.

“Spit it out, Stiles,” the werewolf practically growled.

“Well, see, here’s the thing. My Jeep? Not doing so hot. Completely nonfunctional, actually. So, I was wondering if you could maybe give me a lift to Safeway?”

Stiles cringed, imagining Derek’s annoyed expression.

“I wouldn’t ask, it’s just my dad has been working too much to go grocery shopping and we’re running kinda low on food, so—”

“Yeah, fine,” Derek interrupted him.

“Oh,” Stiles said eloquently.

“Does now work? I was headed there anyway,” said Derek.

Stiles agreed, and the werewolf replied that he’d be there in half an hour and hung up.

Stiles stared down at his phone, dumbfounded that the other man had actually agreed. Stiles hadn’t even had to offer him anything in return! It was like everything had turned upside-down this Summer. Whether this opposite-world was better or worse than the real world had yet to be seen.

Stiles took a quick shower and changed his clothes, and before he knew it he was grabbing his wallet and running down the stairs and outside to climb into the Camaro.

Some indie band was playing softly from the speakers, and Stiles just barely bit back a joke about Derek being a brooding, forest-dwelling hipster. The man was giving him a free ride, after all; he should probably refrain from immediately bullying him.

When Stiles was buckled in, Derek pulled into the street. He occasionally looked over at Stiles, as if waiting for him to start babbling, but Stiles just relaxed into the plush leather seat and let the gentle melodies wash over him.

Soon enough they were parking in the Safeway lot, grabbing shopping carts, and making their way into the store. They decided it would be easier to simply do their shopping together, so they’d be leaving at the same time, so they both turned down the first aisle and began grabbing things off the shelves.

Derek and Stiles couldn’t agree on anything, they soon found out. The first argument was over which flavor of Annie’s boxed macaroni and cheese was best, but the worst was over pickles, of all things.

“What do you  _ mean _ , you don’t like pickles?” Stiles exclaimed as he grabbed two jars of spears off the shelf.

“I mean, I don’t like pickles,” Derek countered.

“You’re insane!” Stiles cried, gesticulating wildly and nearly flinging one of the jars over his shoulder.

“If anyone’s insane, it’s the guy who willingly eats cucumbers fermented in vinegar,” said Derek, eyeing the pickles with a look of disgust as Stiles placed them safely in his cart.

“That’s practically treason,” Stiles pointed an accusatory finger in Derek’s face.

“Pickles are, like, a pillar of American society! How do you eat hot dogs without relish?”

“I don’t like hot dogs,” Derek deadpanned, but the corner of his mouth twitched at the noises of indignation that spilled from Stiles’ mouth.

“Okay, I do like hot dogs,” Derek conceded, “but I eat them  _ without relish _ , because I have functioning taste buds.”

Stiles just shook his head in silent disbelief as he pushed his cart into the neighboring aisle.

When they had finally finished their tour of the store, Stiles supplementing the necessities with five meticulously-chosen flavors of Poptarts and Derek scolding him for having “the palate of a toddler”, the two of them got in the checkout line with their carts.

Derek caught Stiles eyeing the tabloid magazine advertising an exclusive interview with the cast of Supernatural, which prompted yet another debate when Derek chose to voice his vehement dislike for the CW show.

“It’s boring, every episode is the same,” Derek insisted.

“Said with confidence by someone who’s only watched the first season,” Stiles retorted.

“Why would anyone watch more than a few episodes of that garbage?” the older man said with a sneer.

Stiles made a wordless noise of furious indignation that caused the middle-aged woman at the cashier to look over her shoulder at them in annoyance, which cowed them both into silence.

One by one, they made their purchases— Derek pulling out a heavy black credit card, which Stiles eyed with envy— and pushed their carts back to the Camaro. Usually, Stiles would be prattling on about something inconsequential to fill the silence, but he didn’t want to risk irritating his perpetually grumpy companion.

When Stiles had heaved the last grocery bag into the trunk of Derek’s car, he turned to leave his shopping cart in an empty parking space.

“The cart return is the other way,” Derek said smugly, grabbing his own and heading in the opposite direction.

Stiles rolled his eyes, but bowed to the peer pressure and followed the werewolf back to the front of the store.

As they pulled up to the curb outside the Stilinski residence, Derek eyed Stiles’ broken-down jeep in the driveway.

“How do you get anywhere?” he asked as they climbed out of the car.

“I don’t,” Stiles said glumly, “I haven’t left the house since the last time I saw you.”

Derek frowned, but didn’t say anything as he popped the trunk. He grabbed most of Stiles’ groceries and headed for the front door, carrying three bags in each hand.

“Stupid werewolf muscles,” Stiles muttered darkly as he picked up the remaining groceries and followed Derek.

When he reached his front door he shifted all the groceries into one hand, groaning at the weight, and fished his keys out of his pocket to unlock the door. Derek pushed his way into the house as Stiles redistributed the bags in his hands, and walked down the hall that led to the kitchen. Stiles shook his head minutely at the familiarity with which the alpha moved through the house, and pulled the front door shut with his foot.

“Thanks, Derek,” Stiles said as he dumped the groceries on the counter with a vague sense of deja-vu.

“No problem,” the taller man said quickly, and cleared his throat.

“Uh,” Derek leaned on his hands on the kitchen island, his gaze fixed on the bags of groceries next to Stiles’ hip, “you know, if you need a ride somewhere again, you can call me. Within reason. I just don’t want you to die of starvation or anything, after everything you’ve lived through. That would be pretty anticlimactic.”

Derek smiled slightly at his joke, but Stiles just stared, dumbfounded.

“Don’t you have better things to do?” he blurted, and then winced at how rude that sounded.

“I mean, thank you,” Stiles reached up to rub the back of his neck, “but I don’t want to, ah, impose. But thank you.”

Derek stepped back from the counter and shoved his hands in his pockets, his gaze flitting around the room.

“I’m rarely doing anything,” he quirked his shoulders.

“I just thought I’d offer,” he glanced at Stiles, and then away again.

“Anyway, I guess I’ll go now. See you around,” Derek said with a tight-lipped smile, and then strode out of the room.

Stiles heard the front door open and close from where he stood, still trying to puzzle through what the werewolf had offered.

“See you,” he echoed, his voice suddenly strangely loud in the empty kitchen.

  
  



	2. Loneliness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles chewed on his lip, his thumb hovering over the re-dial button. He had all but forgotten about the confusing offer the alpha had made him, nearly a week ago now. Derek was a poor replacement for Scott, Stiles thought, but the isolation was getting to him, and even the grumpy werewolf’s company sounded better than nothing at the moment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do not play video games or read comics at all, so there's a good chance that comes across pretty clearly when I try to write about them. I stole the thing about the MCU from a Jack Saint video lmao ( https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bPlag_PvqAk )

It was mid-morning, the sun was just rising over the sill of his window, and the air was warming quickly in the upstairs bedroom. Stiles sighed and plucked at the fabric of his t-shirt, staring glumly at his laptop screen, where a flashing message cheerily proclaimed YOU DIED.

Playing games alone only succeeded in reminding him of how much he missed Scott— and Scott’s flat-screen tv— and his button-mashing had gotten increasingly angry and desperate, all strategy forgotten, as he thought of his best friend’s betrayal.

Stiles tossed the controller onto his desk and scrubbed his hands over his face with a quiet groan, slumping further down in his chair. Dropping his hands into his lap, his gaze landed on his phone, and he sighed as he scooped it up and opened his recent calls.

_ Outgoing: Scott _

_ Outgoing: Scott _

_ Outgoing: Scott _

The unopened texts and unanswered voicemails grated on Stiles’ nerves like sandpaper, and he moved to throw his phone on his desk next to his controller, but something stayed his hand.

_ Outgoing: Derek _

Stiles chewed on his lip, his thumb hovering over the re-dial button. He had all but forgotten about the confusing offer the alpha had made him, nearly a week ago now. Derek was a poor replacement for Scott, Stiles thought, but the isolation was getting to him, and even the grumpy werewolf’s company sounded better than nothing at the moment.

Derek picked up on the second ring.

“Stiles,” he said gruffly.

“Derek! Hey!” Stiles stood up quickly and began pacing in the small space between his desk and bed.

“What do you want?” Derek sighed.

“Nothing!” Stiles said reflexively, and then cringed when he realized he hadn’t actually thought of an excuse to be calling the werewolf at 10 A.M. on a Saturday.

“I mean, are you doing anything right now?” he asked, bringing a hand to his face to chew on his thumbnail anxiously.

“I was about to go to the library, actually,” the werewolf answered hesitantly, “but if—”

“Perfect!” Stiles exclaimed with relief.

“That’s exactly where I wanted to go!” Stiles prayed desperately that the whole werewolf lie-detector thing didn’t work over the phone.

“Okay,” Derek replied, sounding confused, “I was just about to leave, so can I pick you up in like twenty minutes?”

“Yes!” Stiles exclaimed, doing a small, silent fist-pump.

“That would be great,” he continued, trying his best to sound less excited.

“Okay, see you then,” Derek said with finality, and the line went dead.

“So, why are you going to the library? I mean, why don’t you just buy books with your criminally massive fortune?” Stiles asked as he slid into the passenger seat of the Camaro, the air conditioning raising goosebumps on his warm skin.

“Hello to you, too,” Derek quipped as Stiles put on his seatbelt.

“Sorry, it’s all I’ve been thinking about for the past ten minutes,” Stiles said, his left leg bouncing rapidly in anticipation as Derek shifted into drive.

Derek shot him a strange look, but didn’t comment.

“I’m, uh, picky about books,” he answered instead as he pulled out into the street.

“I like to read them before I buy them, so I don’t end up with shelves full of books I don’t even like.”

Stiles nodded as they turned out of the residential area and onto the main road that headed towards downtown.

“That’s smart,” he said.

“One time, in eighth grade, I overheard Lydia talking about a book, so I went out and bought the whole series, and now I just have all the Twilight books,” Stiles said with a wry chuckle.

“It actually wasn’t that bad, don’t listen to the haters,” he went on, “except for how in the last one, the werewolf character decides he’s mates with the main character’s literal newborn baby.”

“What,” Derek said flatly, sounding slightly choked.

“Yeah,” Stiles said, shaking his head, “I was like, what on God’s green earth was this mormon lady smoking? Like, how did she think  _ that _ was a good way to wrap up the love triangle?”

Derek made a choked-off noise, and Stiles looked over at the werewolf with a grin.

“Anyway, so then my dad walks in on me reading Eclipse, and tries to give me a very uncomfortable lecture. And I was like, dad, why are you doing this to me? I’m just reading about Bella and Edward’s immortal love! Turns out he thought Twilight and Fifty Shades of Grey were the same thing.”

Derek exhaled quickly through his nose, which was the closest thing to a laugh that anyone had ever heard coming from the stoic alpha, and Stiles turned towards the window to hide his smile.

They pulled into the parking lot of the small Beacon Hills library, and Stiles was struck by an influx of memories; he hadn’t come here since his mom was still alive. She used to help him pick out books, and then they’d get frozen yoghurt at the place next door. She always got strawberry, and let Stiles pile way too many sugary toppings into his cup.

Swallowing thickly, Stiles refocused on the present moment just as Derek finished parking the car. He moved to undo his seatbelt, but startled when there was suddenly a werewolf encroaching on his personal space as Derek leaned into the backseat. Stiles found himself watching the way the werewolf’s muscles flexed under his thin shirt as his body twisted. A few inches of exposed skin appeared above Derek’s waistband as his t-shirt rode up with his movement, and Stiles scrambled to undo his seatbelt with renewed vigor. Stumbling out of the passenger seat gracelessly, Stiles desperately hoped the werewolf wouldn’t somehow smell that Stiles had been checking him out. The fact that he had, in fact, been checking out Derek Hale was a fact Stiles resolved to compartmentalize and re-visit later, because now was really not the time for life-changing revelations of any sort.

Derek got out of the car, a small pile of books in his arms, and wordlessly sauntered off towards the library entrance. Stiles jogged briefly to catch up with him, and gestured to the books Derek was carrying.

“So, what has our friendly neighborhood alpha been reading?”

Derek angled the pile so Stiles could see the title of the book on top.

“Ursula Le Guin; The Dispossessed,” Stiles read.

“Never heard of it. What’s it about?”

“I’m surprised you’ve never heard of Le Guin, she’s pretty popular,” Derek said as they reached the library, and he slid his books one-by-one into the return slot next to the door.

“She writes science fiction, about space travel and stuff, you know, but it’s like political commentary,” he explained as the last book dropped through the slot with a gentle  _ thunk _ .

“So sort of like the comic books you like, except actually meaningful,” Derek said with a smirk as he opened the door.

Somewhere in Stiles’ brain, he registered with surprise that Derek remembered he read comics. Most of his brain, however, was just plain offended.

“Hey!” Stiles exclaimed, and the librarian at the front desk shot them a pointed look.

“Hey,” Stiles repeated at a lower volume, “the Avengers movies are for sure problematic when you consider them as an allegory for the war on terror, which makes it pretty fucked up that Iron Man’s obsession with mass weapons production and the violation of civilians’ rights turns out to be justified, but the original comics weren’t like that. Not to mention Watchmen, one of the most popular graphic novels ever, is essentially a long, illustrated rant about how much Reaganism sucks.”

Derek looked at him, surprise evident in his expression, and then nodded wordlessly. Stiles assumed that must be angsty-werewolf language for ‘you’re right, you’re always right, I’m so sorry, please forgive me’, and he was satisfied.

They wandered aimlessly around the library as Stiles peppered Derek with more book-related questions.

“So you like science fiction,” Stiles mused as they wandered slowly down the historical non-fiction aisle, “what else?”

Derek shoved his hands in his pockets and watched Stiles run his fingers over the spines as they walked.

“I usually prefer older books,” he replied, “like nineteenth, eighteenth century. I like the classic writing style better than most modern authors. Usually.”

Stiles’ looked up at Derek in surprise. Something about the alpha werewolf enjoying prose didn’t mesh with Stiles’ mental picture of him.

“What’s your favorite book?” he asked, returning his gaze to the shelves.

“Thomas Hardy’s  _ Tess of the D’Urbervilles _ ,” Derek said too quickly, and Stiles looked up, suspicious.

Derek caught his questioning gaze and looked away quickly, clearing his throat.

“You’re lying,” Stiles said, “what is it really? Come on, it can’t be that bad.”

Stiles was overjoyed to see pale pink appearing on Derek’s cheekbones.

“Pride and Prejudice,” the older man mumbled, clearly embarrassed.

“Dude,” Stiles said with a grin, and Derek scowled.

Derek Hale’s favorite book was one of the most famous romances ever written? The older man was certainly full of surprises today.

“I haven’t read it in a few years,” Stiles said, deciding to put Derek out of his misery, “but I watch the movie with Kiera Knightley like three times a year. Sure, it’s pretty mainstream or whatever, but it’s a great story. No shame, man.”

Derek dropped the grimace, looking relieved.

“That movie’s good, but I prefer the BBC series,” he replied, and Stiles’ grin widened.

“Now that I think about it,” he said, cocking his head to the side, “it makes a lot of sense that your favorite book is Pride and Prejudice. I mean, what is Darcy but a handsome, tortured millionaire with too much eyebrow?”

Derek rolled his eyes emphatically and shoved past Stiles, but as he turned into the neighboring aisle of books, Stiles could have sworn he saw the corner of Derek’s mouth quirk up.

Following the older man into the historical fiction section, Stiles tried to think of another question to ask Derek, but he was beaten to the punch.

“So,” the werewolf asked, his eyes on Stiles rather than the rows of colorful spines in front of them, “what’s your favorite book?”

“That’s a tough question,” Stiles muttered, and hummed quietly as he thought it over.

“It changes depending on my mood,” he said finally, “but right now I’d say  _ The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier and Clay _ .”

“Of course,” Derek said with a small smile, “I should have guessed it would be a book about comics.”

Stiles grinned and then began pulling out books at random to read their covers. Out of the corner of his eye, Stiles saw Derek watching him, his eyebrows drawn together in thought. Maybe the alpha wasn't the only one with a few surprises up his sleeve.

They wandered aimlessly around the library for a while longer, and Stiles checked out a few new books he thought looked interesting. They walked back to the Camaro in silence, and Stiles mourned that this rare outing would be over soon, and he’d have to go back to his empty house, alone once again.

Derek slid into the driver’s seat with a sigh, but didn’t move to put on his seatbelt, instead staring at his hands on the steering wheel with a strange expression.

They started speaking at the same time.

“Hey—”

“Are you—”

They both cut themselves off, and Stiles indicated wordlessly for Derek to go first.

“Are you hungry at all?” the werewolf asked, still staring straight ahead.

“Hell yeah,” Stiles said quickly, a relieved smile spreading across his face, “are you?”

The werewolf’s mouth quirked.

“I could eat.”

“Awesome,” Stiles said emphatically, and leaned down to set his small stack of books on the floor next to his feet, “I don’t know about you, but I’m craving pancakes like a motherfucker.”

Derek let out a single peal of laughter, and Stiles jerked upright in surprise at the foreign sound.

“Pancakes for lunch?” the werewolf turned to him with an incredulous expression.

“Pancakes are the bomb,” Stiles mumbled, still distracted by the fact he’d actually made Derek laugh.

The older man shook his head and pulled his seatbelt on.

“Just when I was beginning to forget that I’m hanging out with a college student,” he muttered with a wry smile, and started the car.

They eventually found themselves at Denny’s, where the waitress brought Stiles a plate piled high with blueberry pancakes, topped with a melting ball of butter. Derek watched warily from over his much more conservative BLT as Stiles poured a frankly obscene amount of syrup over the stack of bread.

Stiles moaned as he happily shoved bite after bite of pancake into his mouth, and Derek quirked an eyebrow.

“Charming,” he deadpanned, and Stiles just smiled back at him, his cheeks puffed out with a particularly oversized mouthful. The werewolf grimaced.

Swallowing, Stiles wiped syrup off his lips with the back of his hand.

“I know you have to keep up the physique of a Greek god or whatever,” he said, gesturing at Derek’s chest, “but maybe you should try eating sugar more often. It might put a smile on that grumpy face.”

Derek’s face immediately dropped into its customary scowl.

“I’m not that grumpy,” he muttered, and bit angrily into a french fry.

“Dude, you’re like a sentient sad sunglasses emoji,” Stiles said with an eye roll, fiddling with the straw in his Dr. Pepper.

“There is no sad sunglasses emoji,” Derek scoffed, and Stiles waved his hand dismissively.

“Irrelevant,” he said, turning his attention back to his pancakes.

By the time Derek dropped Stiles off at home, the sun had long begun its descent into the West, and the heat reflecting off the pavement was nearly unbearable. Stiles couldn’t wait to take a cold shower and sleep off the sugary food he’d gorged himself on.

“Thanks, Derek,” he said as he undid his seatbelt, “you’re a truly exemplary chauffeur.”

“It’s really no problem,” Derek said, watching Stiles reluctantly climb out of the air-conditioned Camaro and into the hot sunshine.

“See you, Sourwolf,” the younger man said with a grin as he shut the door, and he could just barely see Derek’s answering smile through the passenger window.

The Camaro pulled away from the curb, and Stiles turned to walk up the steps to his front door. As he pulled his keys out of his pocket, Stiles mulled the day over in his mind. Unlocking the door and stepping into the relative cool of the house, Stiles was surprised to realize that he actually liked this new side of Derek; this new and improved model that could actually smile, and even laugh occasionally. The werewolf had been more relaxed today than Stiles had ever seen him, but why? The twenty-year-old puzzled over it as he dragged himself up the stairs to his bedroom.

It wasn’t until he was lying in bed, on the precipice of sleep, that the answer floated into his mind. Maybe the alpha had just enjoyed having some company for once; maybe Derek Hale was lonely, too.

  
  



	3. Attachment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Stiles looked at his phone, the unanswered calls to Scott were outnumbered by the answered calls to Derek, and the ever-present ache in Stiles’ chest had begun to ease.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the slight delay in the update schedule, I was camping in the middle of the woods for four days

Stiles woke up the next morning with a half-formed idea swimming behind his eyelids. Stumbling, he made his way downstairs and into the kitchen, and slotted the last two brown sugar Poptarts into the toaster. Then he sat down at the table, blowing gently on his hot mug of coffee, and began scheming.

He was going to platonically woo Derek Hale.

First things first, he needed another excuse to see the other man. Looking around the room, Stiles wracked his brain for a believable reason to ask Derek for a ride somewhere. His gaze landed on their small collection of dog-eared cookbooks, and he grinned. Perfect.

“Hey, Sourwolf!” Stiles said into the phone later that morning. He was kneeling on the kitchen counter, rifling through the top shelf of the cupboards.

“Stiles,” the werewolf sounded surprised, “what’s up?”

“I know you just saw me yesterday,” Stiles said, pushing boxes aside in his search, “but I also know one can never have too much Stiles time.”

Derek made a derisive noise, but Stiles pressed on.

“Can I get a ride to Safeway again? I have this recipe I really want to make for my dad and I’m missing a few key ingredients.”

“Uh,” Derek paused, and Stiles froze with an ancient box of Jell-O in his hand.

“Yeah, okay,” the other man said finally.

“Sweet,” Stiles smiled, relieved, and hopped off the counter.

“I have to deal with something first, but I can probably pick you up at like one,” the werewolf said.

“Okay,” Stiles replied, grabbing a pad and pen, “one would be perfect. Thanks, Derek, you’re a life-saver. Both literally and figuratively.”

The werewolf chuckled, and then there was the sound of metal striking metal, and Derek cursed softly.

“Okay, see you,” he said distractedly, and hung up.

Stiles dropped his phone on the table with a grin, and began scribbling a shopping list.

That was easy.

A few hours later, Stiles was throwing various baking ingredients into a shopping cart while Derek looked on, his hands shoved in the pockets of his trusty leather jacket.

“What is all this stuff?” the werewolf asked warily.

“I thought you were just making cookies.”

“Oh, they’re not just any cookies, my good fellow,” Stiles replied, tossing a small bottle of orange extract into the cart next to the sugar, “it’s my mom’s secret recipe. They’re a Stillinksi special. Also, our kitchen was pretty bare to begin with.”

Stiles double checked his list, and then shoved the crumpled scrap of paper in the back pocket of his jeans.

“Now come along, Darcy,” Stiles teased, and wheeled the cart around towards the checkout, “we’ve got baking to do.”

Derek helped Stiles carry the groceries into the house again and somehow, probably through divine intervention, Stiles managed to convince the older man to spend the afternoon helping to cover the kitchen in a thin layer of flour and melted butter.

Derek went home that afternoon with a large tub full of chocolate orange cookies, the spoils of their culinary exploits. Stiles caught the werewolf smiling down at the tupperware as he walked to the door, and the knowledge that he had put that soft expression on Derek’s face was even sweeter than the sugar in his mom’s recipe.

The next time Stiles called Derek, they went to the library to return the books Stiles had checked out the last time.

The time after that, he forced Derek to take him on a Taco Bell run.

“Ask not for whom the Baja blasts; it blasts for thee,” Stiles quoted, and was rewarded with Derek nearly spewing rice and beans all over the table.

One day, Derek came over to return the cookie tupperware, and they ended up watching Pride and Prejudice in Stiles’ living room, Derek laughing so hard he was clutching his stomach while Stiles threw handfuls of popcorn at the screen, shouting, “That’s not how you talk to a woman, you bourgeoisie fuck!”

After that, Stiles completely dropped the pretense of only needing Derek for his car.

“Come on, Derek, let’s go do something,” he pleaded into the phone one Sunday afternoon.

“You can’t spend all weekend in your furry cave.”

“I wish you would stop calling it that,” Derek sighed, “it’s a perfectly nice apartment. I have running water and everything.”

“Would you prefer ‘the mutilation station’?” Stiles mused.

“You’re insufferable,” Derek muttered.

“Yes, I am,” Stiles replied, leaning back in his desk chair, “and I’ll only get worse the longer you resist.”

“Okay, fine,” the older man gave in, “where do you want to go?”

“How about the arcade?” Stiles suggested.

“I’m curious to see if those werewolf reflexes are a match for my mad skills.”

Derek grumbled about going somewhere “for little kids”, but agreed.

As it turned out, Derek’s supernatural abilities gave him quite the upper hand at Skeeball, and Stiles’ ego took a hit as he watched the werewolf’s tickets piled up.

“I don’t want any of this crap,” Derek muttered as they looked over the merchandise at the prize booth.

“Aw, Derek, look!” Stiles grabbed a stuffed pickle with a smiling cartoon face.

“It’s your favorite!” he exclaimed, holding it up with glee.

Derek’s mouth quirked, and he turned to the young woman behind the counter.

“Just that, please,” he said, and the girl gave Stiles a look he couldn’t interpret.

Later that afternoon, Stiles smiled over at his bookshelf, where the stuffed pickle- which he had named Steve- was propped up against his Harry Potter books, and pondered how they’d gotten to this point. These days, when Stiles looked at his phone, the unanswered calls to Scott were outnumbered by the answered calls to Derek, and the ever-present ache in Stiles’ chest had begun to ease.

One warm July evening, Stiles’ dad paused on his way out the door and leveled his son with a suspicious look.

“You seem especially chipper lately,” he said, his raised eyebrows deepening the lines in his forehead.

“Should I be worried?”

Stiles smiled and shrugged, and his dad grimaced.

“It’s not drugs, is it?”

“Oh my god, dad,” Stiles said with a laugh of surprise, “what are you even talking about?”

“Okay,” the sheriff said hesitantly, “well, whatever it is that’s put that smile on your face, I guess I’m grateful. I was getting a little worried, what with Scott-”

“Dad, I’m fine,” Stiles insisted with an eye roll, and began ushering his father out the door, “now, go catch some bad guys.”

“Okay, okay, I’m going,” his dad said, but paused again with his hand on the doorknob.

“You know I love you, and all I want is for you to be happy,” he said over his shoulder, “but please tell me if you’re doing drugs, so that I can get you the help you-”

“Jesus Christ,” Stiles cried, interrupting him, “I love you, but please, get out of my sight.”

His dad chuckled, and finally shut the door behind him.

Four episodes of  _ Good Omens _ later, Stiles’ stomach started making concerning noises. He craned his neck over the arm of the couch to look at the clock, and was surprised to see it had already gone midnight. Pulling himself upright with a groan, he fished his phone out of the pocket of his jeans.

_ S: You up? _

He didn’t really expect a reply this late, and he and Derek didn’t usually text anyway, so he was surprised when his phone buzzed a minute later.

_ D: That depends on what you want _

Grinning at the alpha’s extremely typical response, he typed out a short and sweet request.

_ S: Pancakes _

Stiles crossed his fingers and waited, then let out a whoop of victory when his phone buzzed again with the werewolf’s reply.

_ D: I’ll be there in half an hour _

Stiles shivered as he got into Derek’s car, and reached over to crank up the heat.

“Take some pity on the weak human,” he said in greeting.

“Oh, I certainly pity you,” Derek replied, and pulled away from the curb.

“I shouldn’t be enabling your sugar addiction, your heart is probably about to give up the ghost.”

Stiles laughed, remembering his dad’s strange comments from earlier that night, and watched the headlights of the Camaro cut through the total darkness of the sleepy neighborhood.

“So why are you still awake?” he asked, turning to the older man.

Derek’s hands tightened on the steering wheel, and he took a few seconds to answer.

“I’ve had a lot on my mind recently,” he said finally, and Stiles narrowed his eyes, but didn’t press for more of an explanation.

“Well then I’m glad to be of service in distracting you with my mindlessness,” he replied, and the werewolf’s grip loosened.

“Now let’s go get you some pancakes, big guy.”

One in the morning found them sitting in a corner booth at Denny’s, waiting for the waitress to come back with coffee.

“Well, if you insist,” Stiles was saying, peeling back the foil cover on a creamer cup.

“I’m literally begging you not to,” Derek said with a grimace.

Ignoring him, Stiles took a cautious sip. The overly sweet vanilla flavor coated his tongue, and he smacked his lips thoughtfully.

“It’s really not bad,” he mused, and took another sip.

“You’re disgusting,” Derek said, trying and failing to hold in his laughter.

The middle-aged waitress returned with two steaming cups of coffee and pulled out a pad to take their order.

“I’ll have blueberry pancakes, please,” Stiles said automatically.

“Just coffee is fine for me, thanks,” Derek muttered in between sips from his mug, neglecting the creamer and sugar at his elbow.

“Alright, that will be right out,” the waitress said with a thin smile, and walked away.

Stiles scowled at Derek as he dumped sugar into his own coffee.

“You’re just going to try to steal some of my pancakes, aren’t you?” he accused.

“I’m only saving you from yourself,” Derek said with a smirk.

Stiles aimed a kick at him under the table, which Derek deftly avoided with a laugh.

A group of loud teenagers stumbled into the diner, and the werewolf turned his face towards the door, watching them with a thoughtful expression.

“I never returned the question,” Derek mused, turning back to Stiles, “why were you still awake?”

“I was watching Good Omens and lost track of time,” Stiles replied, taking a sip of his coffee with a satisfied hum.

“I’ve heard that’s good,” the werewolf said, “but I don’t actually know what it’s about.”

“The book is one of my favorites, so I was worried they’d ruin it,” Stiles wrapped both his hands around his mug, soaking up the warmth, “but the show is actually pretty good.”

Stiles started in on an explanation of the curious dynamic between the demon Crowley and his nerdy angel boyfriend, but was interrupted by the arrival of his pancakes.

Stiles thanked the tired waitress emphatically, eyeing the plate full of buttery goodness with delight. He picked up his fork, rolling his eyes when Derek did the same. With a small sigh, he pushed the plate to the middle of the table.

“You can have half,” he said, gesturing at Derek threateningly with his fork, “just know how magnanimous of a gesture this is. I don’t even share food with Scott.”

“Well, then I certainly feel special,” Derek said with a small smile, and cut into his side of the pancakes with his fork.

They ate in companionable silence, the older man not even commenting when Stiles repeatedly poured syrup over his half of the pancakes, flooding the whole plate with the amber liquid.

“The kids over there are making up stories about us,” Derek said quietly when they’d finished, stirring the ocean of syrup with the tines of his fork.

“What are their theories?” Stiles replied curiously, sipping at his coffee.

“Most of them revolve around me being some sort of criminal,” Derek said with a smirk.

“They think you broke me out of prison.”

“And then we came to Denny’s?” Stiles said, raising an eyebrow.

“I guess we’re not very good criminals,” Derek muttered, and Stiles tried to smother his laugh with a cough.

“Now they’re debating which state we’re on the run from,” Derek said, and then let out a sudden bark of laughter.

“The girl just said we must be from somewhere up North,” he said, chuckling, “because you’re so pale.”

“That’s just rude,” Stiles mumbled, resisting the urge to shoot a glare over at the teenagers’ table, “I might not look like it, but I’m a Californian, born and raised. Never even been out of the state.”

“Really?” Derek asked, looking up at him with surprise.

“Yeah, my dad doesn’t exactly get a lot of time off for traveling,” Stiles said glumly.

“Back in high school, Scott and I came up with a plan for an epic cross-country road trip, but that’s obviously not happening,” he continued, “especially now that my Jeep is a hunk of useless metal.”

Derek frowned down at the empty plate between them.

The waitress materialized suddenly at the edge of their table, and the two men leaned back in their seats so she could clear the dirty dishes.

“Would you like a refill on the coffee?” she asked, and Derek nodded.

“Yes, thank you. And the check, please.”

When she had gone again, Stiles fiddled with his empty coffee cup, a wild idea forming in his caffeine-addled brain.

“You know,” he began, “you have a car.”

“Yes, I do,” Derek said hesitantly, giving Stiles a strange look.

“Hypothetically speaking,” the twenty-year-old hedged, “your car could probably make it across a few state lines unscathed.”

“Stiles,” the werewolf said with a sigh, “what are you saying?”

“I’m just saying that, you know, hypothetically speaking, that the two of us— that is to say, you and I— we— could— hypothetically— potentially—”

“Spit it out, Stiles.”

“I’m saying let’s go on a road trip,” Stiles blurted.

“I mean, neither of us have jobs,” he continued, waving his hands in the air as his words picked up momentum, “and school doesn’t start again for another month and a half, and frankly this Summer sucked spectacularly until we started hanging out, and it would just be  _ totally awesome _ .”

Derek stared, his expression unreadable.

“I mean, if you want,” Stiles bit his lip, hoping his honesty hadn’t crossed a line.

“I can’t,” Derek said, and Stiles’ face fell.

“I mean, I can’t just  _ leave _ , I have— I—” he paused, and scrubbed a hand over his eyes.

“Come on, what’s stopping you?” Stiles pressed. The more he thought about it, the better the idea sounded.

The werewolf took a deep breath, and lowered his hand.

“Yeah,” he muttered, “yeah, okay.”

“Okay?” Stiles asked, his eyes wide.

“Let’s go on a road trip,” Derek said, looking like he couldn’t believe what he was saying either.

Stiles did an enthusiastic fist-pump in his chair, and Derek rolled his eyes.

“It’ll be  _ totally awesome _ ,” the werewolf mocked with a grin, and Stiles smiled so hard he thought his cheeks were going to crack.

Derek wordlessly pulled a stack of cash out of his wallet and tossed it on the table just as the waitress appeared with the check.

“Keep the change,” he said, standing and sauntering off towards the door in one fluid motion.

“Thank you!” Stiles cried and scrambled out of the booth after him, tripping over his own feet, and made it to the door just as it swung shut behind the werewolf.

“Hey, what’s the hurry?” he called, jogging to catch up.

“Let’s go,” Derek said as he pulled out his keys, “let’s leave tonight. Why not?”

Stiles only hesitated for a second.

“Yeah, okay.”

They drove to Stiles’ house first, and Derek dropped him off with a promise that he’d be back in an hour. Stiles, for once grateful that his dad worked long nights, dragged a suitcase out of the attic with some difficulty. He had to pause several times while packing to simply take deep breaths, the spontaneity setting his thoughts racing, but it was a welcome anxiety that set his nerves alight tonight.

He heard the Camaro’s engine outside and hurried down the stairs and out the door, locking it behind him. Derek was waiting at the bottom of the steps to grab the heavy suitcase and carry it to the trunk of the car.

Stiles looked back at his empty house, a brief moment of sanity making him wonder what on earth they were doing, but he shook it off and climbed into the Camaro next to Derek.

“North or South?” the werewolf asked as he shifted into drive.

“North,” Stiles said with certainty, his eyes fixed on his friend as home slipped away silently past the window.

“Let’s go chasing waterfalls.”

  
  



	4. Acceptance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The further they got from everything that he’d always known, as the trees grew ever taller the further north they travelled, the lighter he felt. Stiles was exhausted, but even so, with every mile they put between themselves and home, Stiles felt like he was inching his way out of a pit he hadn’t even realized he’d been in. He wondered if Derek felt it too, but he wasn’t brave enough to ask.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry this took SO long, I don't really have an excuse except I just moved lol
> 
> Once again, the playlist for this fic is titled Anywhere (If You Try to Find Me) on Spotify. I HIGHLY recommend listening while you read, because it really sets the mood!  
> https://open.spotify.com/playlist/0fBcns4jk1iZcWiqzodyf9?si=vZftVcHpRKinSsaXIrWSLg  
> If you don’t have Spotify, I can give you the track listing :)

Speeding through town after town, Stiles remembered a line in a book he’d read in English class, about big seas of dreams and the slow, silent black of the night. The world was asleep, and he felt like he and Derek were the only two people who mattered as they drove along the nearly-empty freeway.

The music playing from the speakers did something particularly odd, and Stiles turned to his companion with a questioning look.

“This band is weird,” Stiles said as the singer wailed.

Derek chuckled.

“Driver picks the music,” he said, shooting Stiles a smile, “shotgun shuts his cakehole.”

They drove for hours, their usual playful bickering gradually losing its steam the closer they got to sunrise as they both felt the lack of sleep take its toll.

“Hey, look,” Stiles said with glee as they drove through Weed, California.

“Happy 5:20, bro,” he said, gesturing at the digital clock on the dashboard.

“Don’t call me  _ bro _ ,” Derek protested, but he was smiling, too.

When the clock ticked over to six o’clock, Derek sighed and said he thought they should stop at a motel. Stiles agreed with relief, and they got off the freeway at the next major town.

_ Welcome to Phoenix , Oregon _ , proclaimed the sign by the road. 

A fitting name for the two of them, Stiles thought. Derek had literally been forged in fire, but he, too, felt like he was teetering on the edge of a new beginning. The further they got from everything that he’d always known, as the trees grew ever taller the further north they travelled, the lighter he felt. Stiles was exhausted, but even so, with every mile they put between themselves and home, Stiles felt like he was inching his way out of a pit he hadn’t even realized he’d been in. 

He wondered if Derek felt it too, but he wasn’t brave enough to ask.

By the time they found a motel, they were too tired to argue when the front desk attendant told them the only rooms available this early in the morning were singles. The two men simply shared a look, and Derek handed over his credit card.

The werewolf wordlessly took Stiles’ suitcase out of his hands and carried their luggage to the second floor. Stiles followed at his own sluggish pace, and when he had finally dragged himself up the stairs, he found their room and promptly threw himself on the bed.

“Stiles, come on, you at least have to take off your shoes,” Derek said from the other side of the room.

Stiles groaned, but dutifully toed off his sneakers before peeling back the blanket on the bed and crawling under it. Derek followed a few minutes later, and Stiles was too exhausted to feel awkward about their proximity as the werewolf curled up beside him. 

“G’night,” he mumbled into his pillow.

“Goodnight, Stiles,” Derek said softly. Stiles thought there was something odd about the other man’s tone, but he was asleep before he could put his finger on what it was.

When Stiles next opened his eyes, he could see streaks of bright sunlight through the small gaps where the curtains didn’t quite cover the window. He quickly realized Derek was no longer beside him, and he could hear muffled noises coming from the direction of the bathroom. Groaning, he pushed himself upright and scrubbed a hand over his eyes.

“What time is it?” he muttered, looking around for his phone, and was surprised when Derek answered.

“Almost two,” the werewolf said as he walked out of the bathroom sporting fresh clothes and wet hair, “and your phone is in the car.”

“Two o’clock? Jesus,” Stiles said with a yawn, “no wonder I’m so hungry.”

“You’re always hungry,” the werewolf shot back, and Stiles rolled his eyes.

“I suppose they’re no longer serving continental breakfast,” he muttered, and dragged himself out of bed.

Derek chuckled.

“Unfortunately not, but there’s a diner a block away.”

“Cool, lemme just shower and stuff real quick,” Stiles said, stifling another yawn. He grabbed a clean set of clothes out of his suitcase and headed for the bathroom, Derek chortling when he tripped through the doorway.

One lukewarm shower later, Stiles felt a lot more alert. He changed quickly and futilely ran his hands through his wet hair before giving up and leaving it to its own devices. 

“Sometimes I really miss my buzzcut,” he mused as he walked back into the room.

Derek looked up from his phone, his eyes zeroing in on the crazed mop on top of Stiles’ head, and chuckled softly.

“I like the longer hair,” he said, looking back down at his phone, “you look less like a goofy kid.”

“I think that was supposed to be a compliment, but it sounded a whole lot like an insult,” Stiles muttered. Derek was looking intensely at his phone, bushy eyebrows drawn together, and he didn’t deign to reply.

“Why are you looking at your phone like it might jump up and bite you?” Stiles asked curiously as he searched through his suitcase for a comb, to no avail.

“I just told Boyd and Erica I’ll be gone for a while,” the werewolf answered.

“They’ll be fine on the full moon without me, I just don’t want them to freak out if I don’t answer the phone.”

Stiles wheeled around.

“Oh shit, I totally forgot about the full moon,” he said, smacking his forehead with his palm.

“It’s in like three days, right? Will you be okay?” he wrung his hands nervously, feeling guilty.

“Without your pack, I mean. I know it’s like a group bonding night or whatever.”

Derek chuckled.

“I’m a born werewolf, Stiles, I can handle one full moon by myself,” he said, slipping his phone into his back pocket and grabbing his leather jacket. 

“I won’t go feral on you, I promise.”

The werewolf frowned for a second, and then shook his head gently as if to dislodge an unpleasant thought.

“Let’s go eat,” he said, grabbing the room key off the bedside table and walking out the door.

Daylight streamed into the dim room, and Stiles squinted uncomfortably as he hurried after his friend.

“Do you want to get your phone from the car?” Derek asked as they walked down the stairs.

“Oh, um.” Stiles rubbed a hand over the back of his neck, “no, I’m good.”

“Really?” Derek looked back at him with an eyebrow raised.

“There isn’t anyone you want to warn of your sudden disappearance? For instance, your father?”

Stiles chuckled.

“He won’t even notice I’m gone for a few days, probably,” Stiles said as they cut across the parking lot towards the street, “and I’d like to avoid that conversation as long as possible.”

His dad wouldn’t be  _ mad _ \- Stiles was an adult, after all- so much as  _ concerned _ that his son was on a road trip with Derek Hale, of all people. He hadn’t exactly been forthcoming with details about his exploits with Derek over the past few weeks, which is to say, the sheriff had no idea.

Derek gave him a long look, and then shrugged.

“Suit yourself.”

They walked down the sidewalk in companionable silence, the occasional car rushing past them along the secluded side street. When they reached the main road, Stiles spotted the diner on the opposite corner.

“I was expecting Denny’s,” he said with a grin, eyeing the tiny restaurant, “but this is some real small-town shit.”

The diner looked more like a house than a restaurant, with white wooden walls and a tiled roof. There were even honest-to-god red gingham curtains in the windows.

“We’re not in Kansas anymore,” Derek quipped as they waited for the light to change.

“You’re setting yourself up for a dog joke with that one, Toto,” Stiles teased, and laughed when Derek groaned.

“I like small town shit,” he went on, “I bet the food is amazing.”

The crosswalk signal came on, and they stepped into the street.

“It’s probably dripping with grease,” Derek said with disdain as they approached the diner.

“Like I said, amazing,” Stiles replied, and Derek rolled his eyes as he held the door open for his companion.

The interior of the diner was cozy, meaning cramped, and most of the tables were occupied by locals wearing flannel and baseball caps with slogans about fishing. Derek’s designer leather jacket got a few prolonged glances, but before Stiles could feel too out of place, a woman with white hair scurried up to them.

“Table for two?” she asked with a smile that deepened the creases by her eyes.

“Yes, please, ma’am,” Derek replied smoothly, and Stiles looked up at him with an eyebrow raised. Ma’am? 

The waitress just smiled brightly and beckoned them to an empty table near the back.

“If this table is alright, I’ll be back in a sec with some menus,” she said, and the two of them nodded their agreement and sat down.

“This certainly is some  _ small-town shit _ , as you so eloquently put it,” Derek said quietly.

“I know, and it’s awesome,” Stiles said with a smile, reaching out to fiddle with the mismatched salt and pepper shakers.

Derek smiled softly, and Stiles tried to ignore how downright adorable the werewolf looked with his tousled hair, usually styled so meticulously.

“So,” the older man started to speak, but the waitress returned with their menus and interrupted whatever he’d been about to say.

“Here you are, dears,” she said, setting a menu down in front of each of them.

“Can I get you started with some coffee?” she asked, and the two men enthusiastically assented.

When the waitress had gone again, Derek leaned his elbows on the table and fixed Stiles with a look.

“So I know the spontaneity is half the fun of this bizarre fever dream,” he said, and Stiles barked a laugh, “but we should probably discuss where we’re going.”

Stiles pursed his lips in thought.

“Hmm.”

“I was thinking-” Derek began, but was interrupted again when the waitress returned with their coffee.

“Do we know what we’ll be having?” she asked.

“I know it’s late, but can you do pancakes?” Stiles asked, aiming his best puppy-dog eyes at the older woman.

“We sure can, sweetie,” the waitress replied with a grin, and Stiles smiled widely. His puppy-dog eyes never failed.

“Awesome. I’ll have pancakes, please. Blueberry, if you’ve got ‘em.”

“Blueberry pancakes, coming right up,” she said, and turned to Derek.

“Do you have any eggs left?” he asked, and the waitress nodded.

“I’ll have two eggs, sunny-side up, please. And whatever usually comes with that, I guess.”

“The two-egg dishes come with toast and hashbrowns, is that alright?” 

“That’s perfect,” Derek smiled up at her, and the two men handed over their menus.

As she walked away, Derek reached for his coffee and took a grateful sip while Stiles picked up the little metal jug of milk that the waitress had brought.

“So, what were you gonna say?” Stiles asked as he poured a healthy serving of milk into his mug.

Derek took another sip of black coffee and then cradled his hands around it, gazing down into the dark liquid like it held the answers to life, the universe, and everything.

“I was gonna say we should just wing it, basically,” he said, and laughed softly.

“I think we should just keep driving due north, and stop as we see fit. Maybe head for Seattle.”

Stiles nodded as he slurped at his hot coffee. 

“Sounds good,” Stiles said, just as Derek’s phone chimed from his pocket. The werewolf pulled it out with a mumbled apology and glanced at the screen while taking another sip of coffee. Reading something on the screen, his eyes widened comically and he looked like he was trying not to spit his drink all over the table.

“What?” Stiles asked, hoping his breakfast companion didn’t start choking.

“What’s wrong?”

Swallowing thickly, Derek just shook his head and shoved his phone back into his jacket pocket.

“It was just Erica,” he said, his expression sour.

“Is everything okay?” Stiles asked, worried that their trip had somehow caused drama in Derek’s pack.

“As okay as it could be,” Derek said cryptically. He caught Stiles’ suspicious look, and sighed.

“Really, everything’s fine,” he said, fidgeting with the sleeves of his jacket, “Erica can just get on my nerves sometimes.”

Stiles chortled, remembering the many times Erica had gotten under his skin with her odd comments.

“What about Isaac and Boyd, how are they doing?” Stiles asked curiously. 

“Well,” Derek began, crossing his leather-clad arms over his chest, “the three of them have been living together for about a year now.”

Stiles raised his eyebrows in surprise. Somehow that development had escaped his notice.

“They wanted to drop out of school to pay their own rent, but I insisted that they finish college,” Derek went on.

“They’re smart kids, I’m happy to help out and keep them on track.”

“So you’re paying their rent?” Stiles clarified, and Derek nodded.

“That’s awesome,” the younger man said, smiling proudly at his friend, “and I bet you’re happy that your pack is so bonded.”

Derek nodded, but his expression was somber as he dropped his gaze to the tabletop.

“They certainly are,” the werewolf said quietly, and sighed.

Stiles easily guessed what was going through Derek’s head, and rolled his eyes.

“Hey,” he began, resisting the urge to reach over the table and touch Derek’s arm comfortingly, “It’s been a while, sure, but I remember the way your betas looked at you, like you hung the fucking moon.”

Derek looked up in surprise, and Stiles smiled in a way he hoped was reassuring.

“You’re their hero, Derek. Seriously, don’t worry. You’re figuring out the alpha thing as you go, I get it, but I’m sure you’re doing a great job.”

Derek just shrugged wordlessly, but his expression was decidedly less sour. 

“I wish Scott would get his head out of his ass and recognize you’re better suited to being an alpha than he is,” Stiles said wryly, “but he’s way too stubborn.”

“Speaking of Scott’s leadership skills, how’s Jackson doing?” Derek asked, uncrossing his arms and reaching for his coffee.

“He has Lydia,” Stiles shrugged, “she keeps him anchored.”

“I’m sorry,” Derek said quietly, “that must be hard for you.”

“What do you mean?” Stiles asked, sipping at his coffee.

“I mean, that must be kind of awkward for you,” Derek said hesitantly, “since you’re in love with Lydia.”

Stiles snorted in amusement. 

“Man, I’ve been over Lydia for years,” Stiles said, shaking his head.

“She and Jackson work better together than we ever would have, I know that now.”

Derek frowned down at his coffee, but before he could reply, the waitress appeared once again, bearing plates of steaming food. 

“Here you are, dears,” she said as she placed them on the table in front of the two hungry men.

“Enjoy!” she said brightly, and turned to go.

“Excuse me,” Stiles piped up, and she turned back around.

“We’re on a very badly planned road trip,” he said, and Derek snorted, “and I’m just wondering if you could tell us what there is to do around here?”

The woman smiled in amusement and made a humming sound.

“There’s not a whole lot in Phoenix, to be honest,” she began, “but if you keep going up the five, you’ll pass the House of Mystery. It’s very popular with visitors.” 

The bell over the door jingled, and the waitress looked away.

“If you’ll excuse me,” she said, and scurried off to welcome the new patron.

Stiles looked at Derek excitedly over his pancakes.

Derek sighed, and picked up his knife and fork.

“Stiles, no.”

“Yes!”

“No,” the werewolf said again, cutting his fried eggs into pieces, the runny yolks flooding the plate.

“Derek, it’s the House of Mystery! We have to go!”

“Stiles,” Derek fixed him with an alpha stare, “it’s just a tourist trap, don’t be stupid.”

“When you blatantly insult me it really just sets my heart aflutter,” Stiles said with a small frown.

“Oh, come on, Der,” he whined, "please?”

Derek gave him a long look, and then visibly deflated.

“Fine,” the werewolf grunted, and Stiles grinned.

“Hell yes, it’s gonna be so cool.”

“Okay, I’ll admit, this isn’t that cool,” Stiles muttered as the tour guide over-enthusiastically pointed at a ball which sort of looked like it was rolling uphill.

“The most magical thing in here is me,” Derek said, and Stiles muffled his snickers behind his hand.

“I guess after all the crap I’ve seen, optical illusions are just a little anticlimactic.”

Stiles still insisted on stopping in the gift shop on the way out.

“This road trip is gonna be the best thing I’ve done all year, I want souvenirs!” he cried as he picked out some postcards.

Derek turned away, but Stiles still saw his smile.

They pulled into a random gas station, Derek’s Camaro sticking out like a giraffe in a corn maze among the dirty trucks and beaten-up volvos.

“I’m gonna get some coffee,” Derek said, unbuckling his seatbelt, “do you want some?”

“Nah, I’m good,” Stiles answered, “I can’t have too much caffeine.”

Derek nodded and climbed out of the car. Stiles watched absentmindedly as the other man started filling the car with gas and sauntered off towards the little convenience store. 

A few minutes later, Stiles was fiddling with his phone when the driver’s side door opened.

“Here, I got you hot chocolate,” Derek said, holding out a large paper cup.

Stiles grinned and took the warm drink, holding it tightly in his cold hands.

Watching Derek push buttons on the machine, he fought back the downright concerning flutterings in his stomach at the other man’s kindness.

“Some guy told me there’s a ghost town around here,” Derek muttered as he climbed into his seat, and began tapping away on his phone.

“A ghost town?” Stiles repeated, unsure if he’d heard correctly.

“Yeah, called Golden,” the werewolf said.

“It’s an abandoned mining town.”

“Huh,” Stiles grunted, sipping at his drink.

“It’s twenty minutes away, just off the freeway,” Derek angled his phone towards Stiles so he could see the route on Google Maps.

“And you thought I was weird for wanting to go to a tourist trap,” Stiles said, shaking his head in amusement.

“If you don’t want to go-” Derek began.

“I didn’t say that!” Stiles interrupted.

“This is your trip, too, dude,” Stiles smiled at his friend over his hot chocolate, and Derek slowly smiled back.

Without any further ado, Derek started the car, and they drove out of the gas station due North.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The book quote in the first sentence:  
> “Only you can hear the houses sleeping in the streets in the slow deep salt and silent black, bandaged night. Only you can see in the blinded bedrooms, the combs and petticoats over the chairs, the jugs and basins, the glasses of teeth, Thou Shalt Not on the wall, and the yellowing, dickybird-watching pictures of the dead. Only you can hear and see, behind the eyes of the sleepers, the movements and countries and mazes and colours and dismays and rainbows and tunes and wishes and flight and fall and despairs and big seas of their dreams.”  
> \- Under Milk Wood, Dylan Thomas
> 
> “Driver picks the music, shotgun shuts his cakehole” is a famous line from Supernatural, the show they argued over in an earlier chapter. And they were listening to Hop Along, a band on the playlist for this fic!
> 
> And lastly, "the answers to life, the universe, and everything” is a Hitchhiker’s Guide reference!


End file.
